


Not For Ourselves Alone Are We Born

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 19:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18999130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: When Satin had first arrived at Castle Black, so many of the men of the Night’s Watch had sneered at him, their lips curling as if he was some foul smell striking their noses. He’d had to laugh; a company of thiefs and rapers and murderers, but it was a simple whore, a boy who’d done nothing worse than give others pleasure, who was considered beneath contempt. They’d adjusted to him, even grown to like him, most of them, but some men would only ever see him as a whore, a deviant to be shamed or a tool to be used.Jon Snow had always seemed to see him as a person.





	Not For Ourselves Alone Are We Born

**Author's Note:**

> For the asoiafrarepairs prompt: Jon x Satin, seeking warmth, set after _A Dance with Dragons._

Lord Snow never seems to feel the cold anymore, not since… Well, not _since_. Satin has never asked him about it, never asked what it’s like to die, but he doesn’t entirely need to. Lord Snow has always been a serious man, but after the red priestess brought him back, he’d taken on an air Satin could only describe as haunted. Not haunted in the way of someone who can’t forget his hardships, though, but in the way of a ruin, like the abandoned keep on the other side of Castle Black, a place Satin had only seen once before but will remember until his own death.

Lord Snow reminds him of that echoing shell of a castle, marked by the life it held before, as still as the dust that settled over everything in it like the powdery drift of first snowfall.

“You’ll catch cold,” Satin tells him when he finds him in the yard one afternoon, the sky still dark with forbidding clouds. The snow storm had died down as quickly as it sprang up, and Lord Snow seems almost confused by it, his hair dripping with sleet and snowmelt, already beginning to freeze again in the chill of the dying day.

He looks at Satin like he’s never seen him before, gone inside himself as he so often seems to be these days, and Satin feels his heart seize up in his chest. He’s always had a soft spot for lost causes.

Lord Snow doesn’t resist when Satin catches him by the elbow and guides him to his rooms. Luckily they aren’t far. As Lord Commander, he could have had his pick of the chambers at Castle Black, but in typical fashion, he’d chosen something modest, convenient to the yard, rather than opting for even the meager measure of luxury possible here.

Satin sighs. He would have gone for the luxury. He thinks of the brothel in Oldtown. At the time, it had seemed disappointing compared to all he heard of other brothels from those passing through: places in Dorne full of gauzy drapes and brocade cushions, censers of incense filling the rooms with the redolence of spice and musk and sweetness. Or those near Highgarden, where every room was filled with flowers, with lithe, sweet-faced whores flitting between the blooms like honeybees. Even the establishments of King’s Landing where intrigues and secrets were on offer along with pleasures of the flesh. His brothel in Oldtown was far meaner and simpler. Catering to harried students and fallen Septons was less a business of luxury than of expediency. Still, it had been a palace of hedonism compared to Castle Black, and he can’t help but think wistfully of it from time to time. Here they have only leathers and furs, and useful furs at that – bear, badger, sometimes fox. Furs chosen for warmth rather than indulgence. Softness is merely coincidence here, rather than something encouraged.

Satin knows his own softness is seen as a weakness by the men around him, so he’s learned to conceal it.

“I’m fine,” Lord Snow says when Satin approaches him with a drying cloth, but Satin ignores him, not one to stand on ceremony since his first week as a steward, when he’d learned what sort of man he served. Lord Snow stands, meekly submitting as Satin rubs the cloth briskly over his hair. He’s shorter than Satin. It’s always a surprise; he seems so much greater than Satin in so many ways, such a powerful figure despite his youth. It’s a shock to be reminded of how slight he is, his body lean and sinewy, even more so now in the aftermath of death.

Satin frowns. He’d intended to fatten him up a bit, but Lord Snow’s appetite has been as absent as his spirit these days.

Lord Snow’s eyes are closed. He leans into Satin’s hands, seeming almost like a faithful hound knowing it will be well-cared-for by its master. It’s entirely the opposite of their actual relationship, but it’s not the first time Satin has been keenly aware of how much Lord Snow trusts him. He wonders if Lord Snow knows how much that trust means to him. When Satin had first arrived at Castle Black, so many of the men of the Night’s Watch had sneered at him, their lips curling as if he was some foul smell striking their noses. He’d had to laugh; a company of thieves and rapers and murderers, but it was a simple whore, a boy who’d done nothing worse than give others pleasure, who was considered beneath contempt. They’d adjusted to him, even grown to like him, most of them, but some men would only ever see him as a whore, a deviant to be shamed or a tool to be used.

Jon Snow had always seemed to see him as a person.

“Your hair wants cutting,” Satin remarks, something he wouldn’t have dared were Lord Snow that other sort of man. He drags the fingers of one hand through the ragged strands; the red priestess had cut at it haphazardly when she brought him back to life and it’s been little improved with further growth. 

“Hm?” Lord Snow says, his eyes opening to look at Satin’s, taking a moment to focus, as if adjusting from a sight far away. “Oh. Yes, I suppose. There’s always something more important to do.”

Something about it breaks Satin’s heart. He’s become accustomed to privation, to sacrifices made for the well-being of others, but Lord Snow has given nearly all, even his life, with little left for himself.

Impulsively, Satin leans forward and presses his lips to Lord Snow’s, wanting to give him something, however meager. Wanting to give him warmth instead of cold. He expects to be gently rebuffed, held at arm’s length with a kind smile and an expression of regret. To his surprise, Lord Snow kisses him back after only a moment’s surprised hesitation, almost instinctively, as if he’s only just remembered how sweet such simple human touch can be.

Lord Snow – or Jon, as Satin finds he can no longer use his title, at least not in his own mind – lifts his arm. Again, Satin braces himself to be pushed away, but Jon only grips his sleeve as he opens his mouth under Satin’s kiss. He kisses near as well as any whore, and Satin finds that though he meant to give warmth and comfort and even pleasure, Jon is giving those things back to him as well. He can’t remember the last time such a thing occurred, and it proves too much, too vulnerable for him to bear.

Jon blinks at him when he pulls away, like a man moving from shade to sunlight, his hand still gripping Satin’s sleeve.

“I…” Satin begins, and then falters. It’s only that Jon is looking at him, truly looking, seeming to live inside his own body for the first time since he came back. His cheeks are pink, his lips as well, and he rubs his fingertips together when he finally drops Satin’s sleeve. “Shall I fetch you supper?”

“Yes,” Jon says, then frowns at himself, seemingly in surprise. “Yes, I find myself quite hungry.”

Satin doesn’t fool himself into thinking he healed Jon Snow at all, let alone with anything so simple as a kiss. So many small things can change a man for good, and death is no small thing. But he can’t help but smile as he makes his way to the kitchens. He’s a steward, after all, his one job to serve his Lord. 

It seems a job fairly well done this night.

 

*  
 _Title from the quote by Marcus Tullius Cicero_


End file.
